The Canvass

It has been the same

the canvass

on which she poured colors

vibrant, dramatic, dark

the faint faces

seemed the same too

over the years

nothing changed

figures, forms

a woman of small means

smaller space

tiny winy little drops of life

small insignificant living

sometimes she turned around

in anger

filling her canvass with hatred

sometimes hours of humor

or simple jealousies

small yet eventful fantasies

tiny dashes of anger

sprouting emotions

yet this canvass

the essence of who she was

has been the same

small in many ways

insignificant to many others

yet true to her self

when I felt love

she said, I felt it well

when I don’t, I don’t

where is the space for

intervals in loving

she said turning to me

long intermissions

has been my pattern

said the other

sager, wiser perhaps or not

my dreams are ordinary

my moments are simple

hence my life is thus

so be it

said I and walked away.